


open up the promise of the day

by Mildredo



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, No plot just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 18:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10645260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mildredo/pseuds/Mildredo
Summary: "There’s a copy of their work schedules on the refrigerator, carefully highlighted to show the rare differences in their routines, and below the schedule the photograph from the cruise ship is held on with two tiny, heart-shaped magnets. They’re settled; the apartment feels like theirs. There’s streaks of Jake between the doilies and knick-knacks – the rack of sneakers by the door, a steady supply of orange soda in the cupboards, the framed Die Hard poster on the wall beside the framed ornamental spoons."domestic fluff, because the world needs more domestic fluff.





	open up the promise of the day

Amy’s towels are pretty great. They’re always dry and clean, and they smell of Amy’s favorite detergent. The towels she’s designated for full-body drying purposes are huge, thick sheets, soft and pale pink, and wrapping himself up in one is the second best thing to happen to Jake in the morning. The first is waking up next to Amy, or more frequently the space Amy has recently vacated to make them both coffee, and feeling his chest swell in the knowledge that this is real.

It’s been a month and it still doesn’t feel real.

It’s been a  _ weird _ month. Living together is different, and hard, and wonderful.  During their first week together, Jake’s sloth clashed against Amy’s fastidiousness in a way that they hadn’t anticipated. They thought they knew everything about the other but the resulting fight tore open tiny pockets of insecurity and doubt in each other, leaving them both exposed and scared. But eventually their fresh wounds laid the path for compromise. They’re learning each other in a brand new way, adjusting small things to make life easier for them both.  Jake wipes his shoes on the doormat and washes his dishes before the ketchup dries. Amy picks her battles more wisely, doesn’t get mad about every stray sock that didn’t make it to the hamper or spot of toothpaste that didn’t rinse away from the sink. It’s still new, but they’re trying and most days it’s working. It’s working really well.

When Jake wakes up to an empty bed, he gets up and follows the smell of coffee and gentle clatter of mugs to the kitchen. He’s in nothing but boxers because Amy likes to keep the apartment warm, and Amy’s wrapped in a bathrobe with her hair scruffy and falling out of a once-tidy bun. There’s a neat stack of recipe cards on the counter: it took exactly four days before they signed up to a meal subscription box service, when Amy’s complete lack of culinary talent and Jake’s diet of sugar and frozen pizza threatened to give them both scurvy. Amy keeps rearranging the cards, trying to decide on the best way to keep them organized. This morning the salads are on top; yesterday it was the chicken dishes. There’s a copy of their work schedules on the refrigerator, carefully highlighted to show the rare differences in their routines, and below the schedule the photograph from the cruise ship is held on with two tiny, heart-shaped magnets. They’re settled; the apartment feels like  _ theirs _ . There’s streaks of Jake between the doilies and knick-knacks – the rack of sneakers by the door, a steady supply of orange soda in the cupboards, the framed  _ Die Hard _ poster on the wall beside the framed ornamental spoons.

“You’re up,” Amy says simply, and hands Jake coffee in his Nakatomi Plaza mug. He hums an acknowledgement into his first sip as Amy pours coffee into a plain blue mug that matches with the rest of the crockery. Jake presses a kiss to Amy’s temple as she sips her coffee, and pours sugar-laden children’s cereal into a plain blue bowl.

Mornings are quiet in the Santiago-Peralta household – neither of them feel particularly vocal before caffeine. Sometimes they drink their coffee in bed, but on mornings like this they flop onto the sofa with their drinks and cereal bowls. Amy scrolls through news articles on her phone, occasionally reading out an interesting headline. Jake listens and nods along and matches colorful cupcakes as he eats his colorful breakfast.

Amy showers first, and by the time she’s done Jake has finished his second coffee and he’s made the bed. At least, he’s tried to make the bed – there are too many pillows and blankets to deal with and he gets confused and frequently tangled, but Amy likes the bed tidy so he’s learning. She smiles at his attempt when she returns, towel-clad with wet hair sticking to her shoulders, and kisses him with warm, damp lips.

“It’s getting better, right?” Jake grins, and Amy straightens a pillow.

“Not bad,” Amy laughs. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“It makes you happy. I’ll do all the pointless chores in the world to make you happy.”

“Sap,” she says, kissing him again. “Go shower. We need to leave for work in thirty minutes.”

Jake knows thirty minutes means forty-five, but he pads off to the bathroom obligingly. There’s a fresh towel already hanging beside the shower and Jake lifts it to his cheek for just a moment, because since moving in he appreciates living in a world with soft, dry towels. He doesn’t miss his damp grey rag at all. The bathroom is humid and smells sweetly of Amy’s shampoo, and she’s drawn a heart with her finger on the steamed-up mirror. Over the pouring water Jake can hear Amy in the bedroom, singing to herself while she thinks no one is listening.

Amy’s almost ready when Jake gets out, dressed in a dark pantsuit and fiddling with her hair. She’s fixed the creases and folds Jake missed in the bedding and finished a second cup of coffee. Jake’s showers take half as long as Amy’s and he can only conclude that she’s some kind of multitasking superhero. He kind of knew that already, though. He dresses quickly, smiling when Amy sprays her usual perfume and the scent reaches his nostrils, and he doesn’t notice the shirt under Amy’s jacket until she adjusts his crooked tie knot.

“Are you wearing my shirt?”

Amy looks down at herself and gives a little shrug. “Yeah. I can change if you don’t want me to…” Jake cuts her off, looping his arms around her back, pulling her close and kissing her. The shirt is a blue plaid, tucked into her pants to fit more snugly around her smaller body, the buttons left open below her throat.

“No way,” Jake says. “It’s kinda hot.”

“Oh yeah?” Amy smirks and rests her arms around Jake’s neck. “Maybe tonight you can help me take it off.” She kisses him again, grins, and turns to walk out of the bedroom, grabbing Jake’s hand as she spins and pulling him with her. “Time for work!” she says cheerily, dragging Jake through the apartment and outside.

“You are  _ evil _ , Santiago,” Jake groans, climbing into the passenger side of Amy’s car. He’ll get his revenge later with a long, over-dramatic yawn that makes his shirt ride up to expose his hips, or by dropping a pen by her desk and pulling a full-on cheesy porn star act. It’s going to be one of those days - playing jump rope with the line between appropriate workplace conduct and straight-up flirting in the bullpen, timing the latter carefully to avoid both Charles and Holt. And the evening will be awesome, because living with Amy means every evening is awesome, and tomorrow he’ll get up and do it all again. Somehow, somewhere along the line, Jake became the luckiest human on earth, and he can only smile into the watery sunlight as they become steadily engulfed in morning traffic.


End file.
